


let there be light (let me be alright)

by teabreathingdragon



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: F/F, Grim reaper au, Scylla is killing ppl because that's what she does, is it major character death if it's set in the afterlife, might have some sex in it later on but i'm not yet sure, raelle is a grim reaper who is Done with the job honestly, scylla is a vengeful baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teabreathingdragon/pseuds/teabreathingdragon
Summary: The second time you see her in person, she is busy changing clothes behind a copse of trees – just twenty feet away from a raging pyre. You had been keeping tabs on her remotely for a few months now, so you knew this was coming. Still, the knowledge doesn’t stop your stomach from roiling. Briefly, you thank the universe that your duties didn’t include protecting her from going to hell.“Don’t linger at your crime scene, dammit,” you mutter as you reach into the flames.or: Raelle just wants to do her job - to bring souls to the afterlife - but things get complicated when she lands a special assignment to protect Scylla - a mystery-shrouded and disarmingly pretty girl with a dangerous crusade.
Relationships: Raelle Collar & Scylla Ramshorn, Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 147
Kudos: 316





	1. we are the dust of dust

The first time you see _her_ , her parents are being rolled by uniformed personnel into a large body bag. Two figures, one holding the other in its arms, burnt to a crisp. Grimacing, you reach for their bodies, your hand phasing through the vinyl smoothly. You close your eyes and let their last moments flash in your mind.

_A woman, bleeding from her abdomen, pleading in front of a masked assailant. Behind her is a man gasping for breath, hands clutching at a wound on his chest. The masked figure approaches them steadily. The woman gathers her husband in her arms. She presses her forehead against his, desperate pleas turning into quiet acceptance. Cold metal settles behind her head, and_ –

You pull out your notebook from your back pocket. The details of the new assignment appear in a messy scrawl.

Assignment _: Moira and Nyx Ramshorn_

Destination: _Elysis_

Manner of death: _Murder_

You let out a massive groan. In the four years you’ve been ferrying, not one person had been brought to Elysis. It was just your luck to be assigned to the first good people in years, and _of course_ they came with baggage _._

The ferrying system was simple for the most part. Bad people are brought to Tartane to rot for eternity, no questions asked. The middle-ground ones go to Asphodiel where they get a chance to earn their way into Elysis. And good people – well, that’s where it gets complicated. 

Good people who die organic, blameless deaths go straight to Elysis, where they can choose to live in eternal contentment or get reborn. Good people who die like the Ramshorns have the added perk of being granted a special request in the afterlife, which would have been all well and good – if it wasn’t _your job_ to fulfil that request.

Huffing in frustration, you reach into the body bag once more to collect two brass coins – the Ramshorns’ souls – which you toss into the air.

Across the street, a brunette who looks about your age is huddled on the steps of an EMT vehicle. There is a thin blanket on her shoulders that seems to be doing nothing to stop her from shaking. Her face is covered in soot except for the two clear tracks on her cheeks, lying beneath piercing blue eyes that gaze straight into yours.

Chills crawl down your spine. The coins vanish in mid-air, and you are gone.

_When you died, you were hoping that was it. Leg cramped in the middle of the ocean, water burning in your lungs, and then a peaceful decline into nothingness. Instead, you wake up in the middle of a crowd, clad in some gray material that’s just_ a bit _too rough to be entirely comfortable, wondering where the hell you were._

_Hundreds of people dressed similarly mill about, and you find yourself following the current. You end up in front of what seems like a town hall, its grand marble-like steps lined with tall pillars leading to a pristine entryway._

_“You’re gonna sign up too?”_

_You jump at the sound, not having expected anyone to talk to you. The girl who spoke is tall, with bright red hair, and an even brighter smile. Beside her is a sullen-looking girl, dark-haired and even taller, eyeing you as if trying to determine if you were worth her time._

_At your puzzled expression, the sullen one scoffs. “To be a ferrier” – she rolls her eyes, as if that was common knowledge to someone who_ literally _just got here – “duh.”_

_You decide you don’t like her on the spot._

_The sunny one extends her hand towards you with an apologetic smile. “I’m Tally. And this is Abigail,” she says, gesturing at the other girl, “who is sorry, because you clearly have no idea what we’re talking about.”_

_You take her hand. “Raelle. And yeah,” you concede. “The fuck is a ferrier?”_

Like the rest of Asphodiel, the seats outside the council room are neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. They are gray, functional, and just… are. Poking at the seat cushions, you’re so determined to ignore the sliding doors across from you that you almost miss it when they open. You scramble to your feet, wiping your sweaty palms on your slacks as you rise from your seat. You straighten your uniform and take one last steadying breath before walking in.

Swallowing thickly, you find yourself inside a circular hall, its white walls covered in bright undulating threads of _something_ that you don’t quite trust. A sleek black podium stands in the middle. You approach it cautiously and place the Ramshorns’ coins face down.

The threads on the wall still completely, before suddenly starting to writhe rapidly, glowing brighter and brighter until the room is filled with white light. You shield your eyes from the onslaught and a hundred overlapping voices speak in your mind.

_Raelle Collar._

_Moira and Nyx Ramshorn’s request has been granted._

_You will protect their daughter from their assailants for the rest of your service. Your assignments will be limited to her vicinity so you may fulfil their request effectively._

_Dismissed._

The bright light from the walls soften to a manageable glow. You shake your head, trying to blink out the white spots in your vision. When you finally recover, you take in the details of your assignment, your stomach clenching at the sight. 

On the podium is the brunette from earlier, blue eyes just as piercing even from a photo. On the walls surrounding you are five stony faces— all clad in the green and gray of the military.

 _Well,_ you think to yourself _. Shit._

_Most middle-grounders make their way into Elysis by reinventing themselves in Asphodiel. They spend their time in copy-pasted houses, doing good deeds for their neighbors, safe in the knowledge that they’d eventually gain access to eternal bliss. Some middle-grounders, the ones without the patience for introspection, become like you, Tally, and Abigail – ferriers. The poster said it helped “restore balance and goodness to the universe,” and promised Elysis just after five years of service._

_One year into the job, you finally realize why so many quit shortly after they start. All of it – every anguished cry, every fearful plea, every whisper of a lover’s name – settle heavily inside you, thousands of regret and desperation entwining themselves with your own. You have seen too much blood, too many horrid memories than you ever thought was possible. Maybe, you hope, Elysis will give you peace eventually. But until then you lie awake at night, dreaming of other people’s pain and waiting to make good use of the fine print at the bottom of your contract._

Rebirth requests are given priority.

_You chuckle to yourself. You probably should have known._

The second time you see her in person, she is busy changing clothes behind a copse of trees – just twenty feet away from a raging pyre. You had been keeping tabs on her remotely for a few months now, so you knew this was coming. Still, the knowledge doesn’t stop your stomach from roiling. Briefly, you thank the universe that your duties didn’t include protecting her from Tartane.

“Don’t linger at your crime scene, dammit,” you mutter as you reach into the flames.

_A man struggles against the ties around his wrists and ankles. The brunette is crouched in front him, impassive. “No, no, please. I had no choice,” he begs, mud and rotting leaves sticking to the side of his face as he squirms. “I was ordered to do it, I had to or they’d get me too, I swear –“_

_“Before you killed them and set our house on fire,” the brunette speaks over him, the tremble in her voice betraying the blank look on her face, “you shot my father in the chest” – she taps the barrel of a gun on his breastbone, before sliding it towards his stomach and pressing deep – “and my pregnant mother in the abdomen.” She pulls the gun away and points it between his eyes, the look on her face more chilling than the metal on his skin. “Tell me, were those part of your orders too?”_

_The man’s eyes widen. She smiles – eery in its perfection – just as she pulls the trigger._

Swallowing the bile that rises in your throat, you glance at your notebook confirming what you already know.

Assignment _: Richard Windstrike_

Destination: _Tartane_

Manner of death: _-_

You take his coin and flip it in between your fingers, appreciating, not for the first time, the simplicity of the system. Evil people go to Tartane, no questions asked. The way he died, fearful and desperate, did not even make it onto your files. What _did_ make it into your records were the ways he tormented his targets before he disposed of them. For someone like him, the afterlife doesn’t care about how he died and who did it, and frankly, neither do you.

Or at least, not in the way you should.

You give the perimeter a quick scan. Satisfied that there are no cops or militia to arrest your charge, you turn your gaze to the brunette – who is now dry heaving behind her tree.

 _Something_ twinges in your chest at the sight. It’s not the disgust you tend to regard killers with. Pity, you think. And something else.

You wait for her to stop retching before you allow yourself to toss the coin. She stands up from her crouched position, only to freeze — eyes wide as she finally sees you. She takes a careful step forward, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

“You’re real,” she exhales, just as the coin reaches its peak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyyyy this plot wouldn't stop coming after me so like  
> are they in character? is my grammar sound? who knows? who cares? the plot spirit demands it to be written 
> 
> anyway hope yall enjoy. i have an idea where this is gonna go BUT who knows where this fic will take us. maybe some smut at some point? maybe. who knows.  
> enjoy the ride pals


	2. light carries on endlessly, even after death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we find out a bit more about scylla
> 
> Or: in accordance with canon, Raelle is stupid and Scylla is Scylla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ world-building: <3 <3 <3 <3  
> me @ dialogue and plot: >:( >:( >:( >:(

“So,” Abigail begins, staring at the pile of documents between the two of you, “walk me through this again.”

Sighing in frustration, you pull out the brunette’s photo from the pile. “Scylla Ramshorn, originally Scylla Spree. Her parents were whistleblowers on some weird – I don’t even know. Some supernatural military experiment.”

“Half of these files are redacted,” Tally pipes up from her spot beside you, the curious look on her face turning into a grimace as she reads through the documents. “’Committee is dissolved due to poor yield. The remaining subject, a three-year-old female, will be terminated after final evaluation.'”

“Yeah, that’s Scylla, apparently. A couple of new lab hands realized what would happen to her, so they took off with her. Kept themselves hidden for 19 years until they were found by these assholes,” you explain, pointing to the stack of army headshots, “that I now have to protect her from.”

“And now she’s killed one of those assholes instead,” Abigail muses. “Looks like she doesn’t need protecting.”

“Yeah but that’s weird!” you exclaim, startling Tally and Abigail. “When I was keeping tabs on her I saw how she took the guy down,” you continue, disbelief seeping into your voice as you rummage through the files to show them a photo. “She just whispered in his ear and then” – you snap your fingers – “he was out.”

“And she can see you,” Tally adds helpfully, as if that was something you could forget.

Abigail snorts, incredulous. “What, so you think she’s some sort of psychic? _That’s_ why she can see you?”

You deflate slightly. It _does_ sound ridiculous when she puts it like that. “I don’t know. There’s nothing in her parents’ memories to explain it.”

Tally shrugs. “Well, we _do_ deliver souls to the afterlife,” she rationalizes, fixing you with a doubtful look. “Is anything impossible at this point?”

_You trace the sigil on the front of your standard ferrier notebook. It’s a five-pointed star circumscribed by a hollow circle— the first breath of life, the moment of death, Elysis, Asphodiel, and Tartane, all bound by universal justice._

_“Why did you guys become ferriers?” you ask absentmindedly._

_Tally hums as she finishes up one of your braids. “I’m in Asphodiel because I didn’t do enough when I was alive. The reinventing thing works for some people, but it feels like I should be doing something to actively help the universe and not just myself, you know?“_

_Of course. Classic Tally. You tend to trust the afterlife’s system, but her not being in Elysis is one of the few things that makes you doubt its perfection._

_You glance at Abigail who is busy polishing her boots to a mirror shine. “You as noble as her, Bellweather?”_

_Abigail stills for a moment, before continuing to scrub at the leather-like material. “I was supposed to be the youngest CEO of the biggest security agency in New York,” she relates, scrubbing growing more vigorous as she speaks. “My mother would never forgive me if I became some random face in the crowd” – a frown wrinkles her forehead as she pauses, blowing off some imaginary dust on her shoe – “and being a ferrier is the only thing worth doing here.”_

_You recall it now, Bellweather Security Agency. Your mom always said she wanted to work there after she retired from the army._

_Tally starts weaving another braid on the side of your head. “Why did_ you _become a ferrier?” she asks brightly._

_You hesitate for a moment before shrugging. “Peer pressure.”_

_A filthy shoe rag promptly hits the side of your face, earning an offended gasp from you as you reach for a pillow to defend yourself._

_“See!” you whine at Tally, who tsks at you when you cause her to mess up your braid, “this is exactly how Abigail bullied me into it.”_

_“Shut up, shitbird,” Abigail grumbles, sending you a dirty look. “Don’t ask us shitty questions if you’re not willing to answer them too.”_

_You flip her off, deliberately ignoring the weight of the charm that’s pinned to the inside your coat._

When you see her again three months later, she’s in a bright yellow shirt and pressed jeans, with a deceptively innocent look on her face. She’s perched primly in front of a metallic chamber, looking every bit out of place amongst rusted pipes and groaning machinery. Her eyes sweep over your form, one perfect eyebrow quirking up when you shuffle your feet self-consciously.

“Not that I’m not into it,” she says, a teasing lilt in her voice, “but why would the grim reaper be in uniform?”

You resist the urge to straighten your coat. “I’m not the grim reaper.”

She tilts her head curiously at your response. “I’m Scylla,” she offers.

“I know.”

Hoping that didn’t come across as creepy as it sounded, you nod at the cremating chamber in front of her. “Not doing pyres anymore?” 

Scylla shrugs, eyes somehow twinkling despite the lackluster lighting. “I couldn’t get the smell out of my clothes,” she reasons. “I’m punishing them, not me.” 

You… don’t know what to say to that. “Right.”

The amused smile on her lips only widens. Clearing your throat, you face the machine and reach inside.

_It’s a beautiful day._

_A woman sits at a table outside Café Cession, scanning the headlines on the day’s newspaper._

‘1600 dead in suspected terrorist attack.’

‘There are only ten of us left: Tarim tribe dwindles as tensions in China-Russia border escalate.’

‘Army veteran found executed in Salem Forest. ‘

_The last one catches her attention. She starts to flip to the centerspread, only to be interrupted by a girl plopping on the seat across from her._

_The girl gives the puzzled woman a beguiling smile. “Go to this address,” she says without preamble and slides a piece of paper across the table, “and then go to sleep.”_

_The woman’s eyes glaze over, and then she nods._

That’s where the memory ends. Shaking your head to clear the image from your mind, you’re already blurting out a question before you could stop yourself.

“Are you psychic?”

Wincing at how stupid that sounded, you rush to elaborate. “Her – and that Windstrike guy – she obeyed you, and he just… passed out?”

The amusement that was so firmly in place slips, giving way to surprise. “You saw that?”

At your nod, she pauses for a moment, worrying at her bottom lip, before attempting to explain. Your gaze flickers down involuntarily and you have to force yourself to look up. “I, uh, don’t know actually. Ever since I saw my paren— since that night, I’ve become more…” she trails off, brows furrowing as she tries to find the right word. “Persuasive.”

She wraps her arms around herself, staring at the ground resolutely. “I thought at first everyone was just being accommodating because of what happened. Until one day, one of my colleagues asked for some paperclips and I told her to knock herself out.” She looks up then, a wry smile on her lips. “She needed thirty-two stitches.”

You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine.

Using the word “psychic” feels ridiculous, but how else can you call _that_? Hypnotism? Mind-control? Witchcraft? Every term feels just as impossible as the last. Yet you recall the woman in the chamber – _Izadora Lafinne_ , according to your notebook, _Tartane_ , _in charge of subject disposal_ — how her eyes glazed over, and her memories blanked out. How Windstrike slumped over with a whisper.

Tally was right – nothing was impossible anymore.

Trying to keep yourself grounded, you direct your attention to the woman responsible for your turmoil.

She’s pretty – you couldn’t ignore that if you tried. Her dark hair falls in gentle waves around her shoulders, gracefully framing her delicate features. Her eyes, captivatingly blue, are distant and unfocused. She chews at her lips incessantly, her arms wound tightly around herself. Despite knowing what she’s capable of, you have never felt a stronger urge to protect someone.

“Have you seen other ferriers before?” you inquire quietly, hesitant to add to her discomfort.

It takes a few moments before she turns to you with a questioning look on her face.

“We’re ferriers. Not grim reapers,” you explain. “We don’t collect souls until _after_ they’re dead, we just bring them to the afterlife.” 

“The afterlife,” she deadpans. “Of course.”

Her face cycles through the entire spectrum of human emotion before she lets out an incredulous chuckle. For a moment, you’re afraid you might have broken her.

“No, I’ve never seen other _ferriers_ ,” she denies, the pitch of her voice rising as she tries to wrap her mind around the concept. She shakes her head slowly, taking a deep breath to compose herself. “None of this supernatural nonsense started until my p— that night.” 

_Supernatural_. Inside your mind, something _clicks_. “What exactly did the military do to you when you were younger?”

(At the same time, you realize: You should _really_ think before you open your mouth.)

In an instant, her face is a cool mask. She unwraps her arms from around her waist and crosses them in front of her chest defiantly. “How do you know so much about me?”

You backpedal immediately, cursing internally at your lack of filter. “You don’t have to answer, I’m just – I’m trying to protect you.”

“Like you protected my parents?” she snaps at you, a misguided hurricane brewing behind her eyes.

“They were alrea— I’m not –"

 _I’m not some guardian angel_ , you want to argue, but the words die on the tip of your tongue. The look on her face is familiar— the anger, the need for someone to blame. The desperate clinging to any emotion –pain, vengeance, rage – just to keep going. It’s a look you’ve seen in the mirror too many times.

“I’m protecting you at their request,” you relent.

The revelation takes her by surprise. She breathes out a soft _oh_ , her posture visibly relaxing, the maelstrom in her eyes melting into something less destructive.

It takes several minutes of heavy silence before she speaks again. Her gaze is fixed on the ground in front of her, brows knitted in focus. Her voice is quiet when she asks, “Are they okay?”

You give her the most comforting smile you can muster. If you could have asked that to someone when your mother died, maybe things would have been different for you.

“Yeah,” you assure her. “Yeah, they are.”

Scylla looks up at you then, and your breath catches in your throat. For the first time, she’s smiling genuinely. Not the smug, flirty façade she greeted you with but the kind that crinkles the corners of her eyes and the bridge of her small nose. Her eyes are shining brightly as she mouths a _thank you_ , and _oh,_ you think, when that twinge in your chest returns.

 _That’s going to be a problem_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope yall enjoyed this one  
> next chapter's been written but i'm trying to stay one chapter ahead before i post because i tend to shift the flashbacks around a lot. bc my brain is a gooey mess.
> 
> chapter 2 title from saturn by sleeping at last  
> chapter 1 title from sun by sleeping at last (forgot to add this to the previous chapter lol)  
> fic title from sun by... you guessed it, sleeping at last


	3. with a supernova's energy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> raelle saves scylla and scylla? scylla is trouble.

_Someone once told you that grief was stubborn and wild, like an untamed animal that has to run itself out. Three years after your mother’s death, two of those spent being dead yourself, you wonder how much longer before that fucking beast finally clocks out._

_Your mother went to Elysis – you know, because you knew her. How she would give the clothes off her back to a stranger. How she would gather the wasted youth of your neighborhood and fix up their injuries. How she gave you her lucky charm – for college, she said, pinning the bird’s foot and blue flowers on the lapel of your jacket— right before she served as a medic in an active warzone._

_As you stare at the bottom of Tally’s bunk, you find yourself toying with a replica of the charm. It’s a poor imitation, crafted on a night just like this – where you’re lulled into sleep by the rhythmic aching within your ribs._

_Somewhere inside you, the animal_ seethes _._

Suddenly, you’re 18 again, giving your dad one last hug before he sends you off to college—

You’re in the car, flooring the accelerator, trying to see how far you can push your luck—

You’re at the beach, feeling the ocean lick at your feet, seeing your mother’s eyes in your reflection—

You are a child, reaching for your momma until the tide sweeps you off your feet, sending you tumbling into the cold sea—

_You wake up to Tally shaking your shoulder, the thudding in your chest almost loud enough to drown the scraping of Abigail’s bed being crammed against yours. They position themselves on either side of you, an unspoken arrangement borne of too many restless nights. As you prepare for another, you can’t help but wonder. For all your mom’s insistence – imposition, even – that the afterlife existed, did she ever imagine this?_

One moment Scylla is halfway through opening the door to the examination room, and the next you’re in front of her, pulling the door shut and pushing her to the ground, shielding her with your pseudomortal body as a blast of heat and noise slams against you from behind.

A series of loud explosions ring through the air, and you slide your forearms under her head, trying to protect her from waves of searing heat and tremors. When a considerable amount of time has passed since the last explosion, you unwrap your arms from where you’re cradling her and lift yourself so you’re hovering above her frame. Beneath you, Scylla has her eyes screwed shut, shaken but seemingly intact.

When she finally opens her eyes, you find yourself transfixed. Even now, she is enchanting, with her hair wild and breath stuttering as her gaze drops down to your li—

You push yourself off her fast enough to get whiplash. You berate yourself for getting distracted – Scylla had just been seconds away from being incinerated alive. Now is not the time for… that problem.

Surveying your surroundings, you realize that the rest of the hallway, save for being littered with glass and debris, is mostly untouched. The same, however, could not be said for the medical examiner’s room. The steel doors that protected you and Scylla are now bulging outwards like a freshly pumped balloon. Through the windows lining the hallway, you note the blackened bodies – c _onsistence is key_ , you think darkly— scattered amongst warped examination tables. The desk in the corner of the room is still on fire, but your warning to Scylla is cut off by the shrill wailing that pierces the air.

Behind you, Scylla winces at the noise, inching away from the fire alarm she had just pulled. “Well,” she remarks drily, “that was loads of fun.”

Luckily, no one else had been in the vicinity of the incident, so it was just you and Scylla that was carted into an ambulance. Despite the fact that your form was issued in the exact moment that Scylla needed protection, therefore making it invulnerable to possibly every danger on earth, the paramedic – a stern-faced woman with the air of a drill sergeant about her — dismissed your protests and insisted on screening you for injuries.

After nearly four years of being a ferrier, being perceived so thoroughly is… strange. The paramedic found nothing, of course, but the uneasiness lingers even until now, as you sit beside Scylla’s hospital bed waiting for her to wake up.

The nurse assured you that she was fine, mostly fatigued, but they’ll be keeping her overnight just in case. _Are you family?_ she asked. Followed by, _is there any family who can keep her company?_ You hesitated to answer, worried that you’d be sent away; but the nurse, bless her soul, just gave you an understanding smile and left without another word.

Watching the serene expression on Scylla’s face, you can almost believe that she’s ordinary. The gentle slope of her features, the faint snoring, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest – all belie the mystery surrounding her.

(The word _adorable_ comes to mind, and again: _not the time, Raelle._ )

Half a year since the first time she saw you, you’re still not sure _how_ or _why_. All you have is an inkling that it may have been caused by whatever the military did to her; and yes, nothing is impossible, but even _that_ seems too tin-foil hat to be true.

Your musings are interrupted by the nurse checking in on Scylla, whose eyes flutter open at being prodded. She takes advantage of her wakefulness to ask the questions you couldn’t answer a while ago. You blush at the more intimate parts of the history – sexual partners, really? She had a minor case of smoke inhalation, not warts – but Scylla pays you no mind except to give you a sideways glance as she answers _yes, male AND female_.

If you had been the one attached to a heart monitor, you doubt the nurse would have been able to leave so casually.

Free from the nurse’s ministrations, Scylla tries to sit up on the bed, gingerly maneuvering the monitoring equipment attached to her limbs. You move to help her, ignoring the way your palms tingle where they touch her skin. Once she’s successfully propped up on the pillows, she wastes no time leveling you with a meaningful look.

Her voice is soft when she speaks, tinged with relief and more than a little bit of awe. “You saved my life.” 

“Just doing my job, so—” You finish your sentence with a shrug, resisting the urge to fidget.

She smiles at you then, a small grateful smile that forces you to look away as you ignore that increasingly frequent flutter in your chest. “Thanks, anyway.”

She tucks a wayward lock of hair behind her ear and smooths her palms over the blanket covering her thighs. When you glance at her again, the sincere smile has already been replaced by a wicked grin. “I’m not sure the straddling was necessary, but I appreciated that too.”

“You— I—Will you take this seriously?! This wasn’t random, Scylla,” you sputter in response, frustrated and flustered and _concerned_. 

The outburst is met by an eye roll and a derisive snort. “Ooh, what gave it away? _My_ examination room exploding the moment _I_ tried to enter it?”

There is enough bite in her tone to cow you and a tense moment passes before you speak again. “It might be the same people who had your parents killed.”

“ _Or_ , I uncovered some pretty damning evidence that someone needed to get rid of,“ she counters, unmoved save for a brief twitch of her lips at the mention of her parents. “I just lost a crap-ton of evidence.”

“Scylla, someone tried to _kill_ you.”

“And they _failed_! Do you really think that if the military wanted to kill me, I’d still be here? For all we know, it could have been payback from someone who went to jail because of something I found. Or a very angry ex! There _are_ other things in my life —"

Scylla frowns, her tirade coming to an abrupt stop. “You never told me your name.”

“Oh,” you reply dumbly, mind stalling from the rapid shift. Were you always this inarticulate? “Raelle.”

“Raelle,” she repeats perfectly. “There _are_ other things in my life, Raelle.”

(Your name sounds so _different_ falling from her lips, and you don’t understand _why.)_

You huff at her stubbornness, pulling out your notebook to review the information that you have. There must be something from her parents’ memories that can help you protect her, or hell, convince her, but your search is quickly abandoned when you find an update on your assignment instead.

You lick your lips, mouth suddenly feeling dry. “Well, I hope you don’t mind one more thing adding to that.”

Her eyebrow, that damn eyebrow, raises ever so slightly at that. You flip your notebook to show her the page.

 _Critical_ : _Provide round-the-clock protective detail until threat is neutralized._

“Hm,” Scylla hums, not bothering to hide the intrigue on her face. “Looks like you’re my new roommate.”

Just the _concept_ is enough to make your pulse quicken; and you exhale slowly as you come to a sinking realization.

That problem that you had? Well, it’s about to get _way_ more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god THEY WERE ROOMMATES  
> watch me cram as many fanfic tropes in this WATCH ME
> 
> chapter title changed bc we don't condone possible abusers so now it's from sleepwalking by 1323  
> thanks to everyone who's still along for this ride! hope yall enjoyed this, and enjoy the next ones to come. the next chapter is the longest one, and my favorite so far. BUT i haven't started on the one after that so we got like, a whole week maybe two before yall can see chapter 4 sorry. 
> 
> also:  
> a line i changed but definitely wanted to include: "Well," she remarked drily, "that was a blast."
> 
> anyway!!!! have fun, thanks for reading, stay tuned for more, be gay, do crimes <3


	4. black hole sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a useless gay and an avoidant bisexual

On the day of her discharge, Scylla insists on treating you to lunch, claiming it’s the least she can do after you saved her life. The offer is accepted for you by your grumbling stomach, earning a chuckle from Scylla as your face heats up in embarrassment. Apparently, your corporeal form was invulnerable to most things, but not to basic bodily needs.

Before you know it, she’s linking her arm with yours, dragging you down the street to a diner whose burgers are _to die for,_ she swears. The choice of descriptors makes you wince, but her buoyant mood is contagious, and you find yourself smiling back – that is, until you suddenly find yourself on your ass, blinking stupidly at the diner’s glass door.

Judging from the pain in your nose, you can no longer just phase through things at will. By the entryway, Scylla bursts out laughing, an uninhibited child-like thing that has her clutching at her sides, her eyes tearing up, and your stomach fluttering dangerously.

She wipes at her eyes and offers a hand to help you up, apologizing for each giggle that she fails to stifle. You take it grumpily as you dust off your pants, trying not to shrink at the sensation of the entire diner’s eyes on you. You _swear_ you weren’t always this clumsy. _Must be the new body_ , you theorize, and if your heart rate skyrockets when Scylla holds your hand until you find a booth? That’s just you acclimatizing.

“Being human isn’t as easy as it seems, huh?” she teases as she slides into the opposite seat.

“Whatever,” you grumble, “you try being dead for four years, then suddenly having a body again. Then, you can talk.”

At Scylla’s curious expression, you launch into the concept of ferrying and the system. It’s _probably_ not wise to reveal so much about the afterlife to someone still alive, but you’re honestly just winging it at this point. Besides, who would you be if you weren’t doing something ill-advised?

You’re about to dive into final requests when an enthusiastic greeting interrupts you.

“Hi, welcome to Mom and Dad’s!” A petite brunette beams at you, order sheet at the ready. “Can I take your order?”

You give Scylla a panicked look – you hadn’t thought about food in years, let alone glimpsed the menu – but all you get in return is a guileless smile. She either doesn’t get the message, or she’s content to watch you flounder. Knowing Scylla, it’s probably the latter.

“Hi, uh,” – you glance at the server’s nameplate, giving her what you hope is a charming smile – “Nigel. Do you have any recommendations for me?”

With a flattered “Oh!”, she produces a menu, leaning over to give a commentary that’s punctuated by bashful smiles and the occasional giggle. You’re still debating if you should just choose at random when Scylla speaks up.

“I’ll have the classic. With some fries on the side. Please.” Her tone is clipped, completely dissonant with the sickly-sweet smile she’s directing at Nigel. She directs her attention to you, and you swallow involuntarily.

“Um. Same,” you say to Nigel sheepishly, who seems disappointed that you didn’t go with any of her suggestions. “Thank you.”

She writes down your orders, visibly deflated, and gives you a final lingering look before retreating into the kitchen.

“So,” you begin, relieved when Scylla’s smile goes back to normal. _Weird._ “Where were we? Final requests?” At her affirming hum, you continue cautiously. “Right. I think we have to learn more about the… experiment to keep you safe.”

Scylla accepts a cup of coffee from another server before answering simply. “No.”

_From what you’ve learned, it’s not unheard of to be granted a corporeal form to fulfil final requests. Opportunities were rare, given the scarcity of good people, but it was still a frequent subject of your daydreams._

_You’d imagine taking a trip to the pub where your dad worked. You’d peek through the grimy window and see him – wiping chipped glasses behind the same misshapen bar counter. You’d sit at one of the rickety corner tables and watch as he joked with his regulars. Later, after you had downed enough drinks, you could come up to him and apologize for leaving him alone. You could even hug him – actually, properly hold him, not just phase through him like a ghost – before apologizing and pretending you mistook him for someone else._

_He wouldn’t recognize you, of course – your form would still be a tool to fulfill a task, anything that would compromise that would be taken care of – but it would be nice, you think, if for a moment, you could pretend you only lost one parent, and not two._

Every single time you’ve interacted with Scylla and found her frustrating pales in comparison now that you’re living in her guest room. She’s a pleasant roommate, considering the short notice, but her refusal to discuss her safety is driving you _nuts_.

“Scylla, you can’t keep avoiding me every time I bring this up,” you huff, prodding exasperatedly at your dinner. In the past two weeks, if Scylla wasn’t flirting with you, she was busy trying to salvage whatever she could from her office. If your initial attempts at brainstorming a strategy had been met with flat-out refusal, now, it’s met with suspiciously timed paperwork.

On the other end of the couch, Scylla gives you a pinched smile before turning up the volume of the movie playing in the background.

“Did I go overboard with the cheese?” she half-shouts over the film, gesturing to the plate of pasta she had prepared for you.

“No, it’s perfec – will you _please_ stop trying to distract me?” you admonish, unable to keep the frustration out of your voice as you reach for the remote and shut down the movie. “The military is after you, Scylla. It’s my job to protect you. We _have_ to talk about it.”

In the ensuing silence, the clink of her plate against the living room table is disproportionately loud. She takes a long sip of water and slowly wipes her mouth with a napkin. She takes your plate from your lap and sets it beside hers, the protest on your lips dissolving into a choked gasp when you suddenly find yourself pinned against the couch; hips trapped between Scylla’s knees.

Every single thought in your head is effectively obliterated as she leans further into your space, close enough for you to feel warm breath on the shell of your ear. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

You nod at... whatever she said, mouth filling with cotton at the proximity. She smiles sweetly at your response, pats you on the cheek, and then returns to her end of the couch.

By the time you finish processing what just happened, Scylla is already wishing you a good night and making her way to her room.

_You’re back on the beach, but this time your mother is there with you. Your pop is there too, and they’re sending you off to college. Your mom pins her charm onto the lapel of your jacket, and you laugh a little because everyone is going to think you’re a weirdo. But it doesn’t matter – there is warmth swelling within your chest, filling you all the way to your toes._

_(You’ve almost forgotten how nice it feels to be happy.)_

_But suddenly, the tide is too high, and your mother is in her fatigues. She is swept off her feet, trying to reach for you, but you’re not close enough to pull her back in. Your father holds you back, but you push him off trying to chase after your momma – except she is nowhere to be found. You look back at your pop but he is gone too. Suddenly you’re in the middle of the ocean, choking on water, choking on your sobs, waves thrashing you violently as thousands of voices cry out strangers’ names, begging–_

_“Raelle!”_

You jerk awake, clutching at your throat and gasping for breath. Your head swivels wildly as you try to orient yourself, the roar of the ocean still in your ears. _Raelle, it’s okay, you’re okay,_ comes a low murmur from beside you and you cling to it desperately, like driftwood bringing you to shore. _You’re safe. I’m here. It’s okay._

When the fog in your mind clears, you’re greeted by the sight of a pajama-clad Scylla sitting on the edge of your bed, her brows knitted in concern. Almost immediately, the thought that you were probably _sobbing_ loud enough to bother her all the way in her room makes you want to fade out of existence. “Sorry, did I – did I wake you?”

Her answer is a small shrug. “Wasn’t having the best night either,” she assures you, tucking her legs beneath her to sit on the bed fully. “Your mom, huh?”

You don’t know if it’s her soothing voice, or the inherent comfort of the late hour, but you find yourself nodding, pulling your knees to your chest and picking on a loose thread on the hem of your sweatpants. “I drowned because I thought I saw her in my reflection. It wasn’t even on purpose.” A dark chuckle escapes your lips. “Stupid way to go, really.”

Scylla just watches you intently, her eyes too blue and too keen. After a long minute, she scoots closer, extending her hand towards you. “Here, give me your hand.”

She takes your tentatively offered hand in both of hers and begins tracing unidentifiable shapes on your palm. Your unasked question is answered with a patient smile. “My mom used to do this for me when I had nightmares.”

The confession surprises you, too used to Scylla’s aversion to anything related to her parents. You stay like that for a while, Scylla drawing figures on your hand, a feeling of calm washing over you. To your further surprise, she breaks the comfortable silence to elaborate.

“When I was younger, I would keep dreaming about what they did to me,” she divulges, voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze is firmly locked on your hands. “I was too young to really get what was happening, but I remember this… _searing, burning, pain_. And these flashes of people I’d never even met,” – the frown on her face deepened as she spoke, her eyes taking on a haunted look – “crying. Begging.

“Ever since my parents died, I’ve been dreaming again. All of this… puts me right back in that place. Looking over my shoulder constantly. Waiting for the army to catch us— or just me now, I suppose.”

She exhales shakily as she looks up from your hands, concluding her admission with a contrite smile. “I know you’re just doing your job. And that I went too far. I’m sorry.”

There is a warm ember inside your chest that glows brightly at being allowed a glimpse past her carefully built walls. You accept the olive branch, even as you shift at the memory of the earlier encounter. “It’s not just a job, Scyl,” you admit, oblivious to the fingers on your palm going still. “You drive me _nuts_ , but that’s because you’ve been through a lot. And I… I just want you to be safe.”

She doesn’t say anything, just squeezes your hand in acknowledgement. The warmth in your ribcage _blazes_ , and you retract your hand as soon as you realize – _you’re treading dangerous ground._

You retreat, coward that you are, by taking a page from Scylla’s book. “Besides, what was it you said? ‘The straddling wasn’t necessary, but I appreciated it, anyway’?”

She has the decency to look embarrassed, shaking her head slightly as she laughs softly. “Touché,” she concedes. “How about this? I bring my laptop here, and we watch whatever you want until we’re too tired, even for nightmares. If you want.”

 _Dangerous_ , you remind yourself, as your heart clenches at the hopeful look in her eyes, _and ill-advised_.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> raelle stop being useless challenge!!!! also @ scylla pls flirt w me too  
> i know many wanted them to only have one bed but PERSONALLY my favorite is having two beds but ending up using only one anyway 👀 
> 
> chapter title from black hole sun by soundgarden
> 
> anyway i hope you enjoyed this!!! i love these useless gays!!! be gay, do crimes, and stay tuned for more <3  
> come holler at me @flopbyul on twt. (warning: it's mostly a kpopstan acct)


	5. the space between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mornings, grocery shopping, and several bursts of nostalgia

In Asphodiel, days and nights passed without making a difference.

It’s not that time worked differently as it did in life, but more of the fact that so little happens once you’re no longer alive. If you made a list of the significant events that occurred there, you wouldn’t even run out of fingers on one hand. First was your arrival, immediately followed by the second and the third— signing up to be a ferrier with Tally and Abigail and doing your very first assignment. The fourth, and probably the last, was being tasked to protect Scylla.

Everything else… was a countdown to oblivion.

With Scylla, it’s the complete opposite.

It’s a shock of piercing blue eyes and a fiery explosion on a Tuesday morning.

It’s an unsolved mystery. A flutter in your stomach. A tranquil night of secrets.

It’s waking up to this – Scylla curled up on her side, snoring softly after too many episodes of some afterlife-based sitcom that was released after you died.

You already knew she was pretty – you have eyes after all – but in this stolen moment, you let yourself acknowledge the steadily growing warmth inside your chest.

Scylla is _beautiful_.

It’s not just the sharp curve of her brows, or the gentle slope of her nose. It’s the glint of wit that you know will greet you when she wakes, the smug curve of her lips at the beginning of a snarky remark. It’s her low voice and the soothing touch of her palm. It’s the windows of vulnerability you’ve been allowed to glimpse and the unshakeable fortitude of still being here.

In this liminal space between sleep and knowing better, you allow yourself to tuck an errant stand of hair behind her ear; to look into the ocean eyes that flutter open at your touch.

“This isn’t exactly the morning-after I had imagined.”

You groan as you roll over to your back, pulling the covers over your head. _Of course_ , not even the early hour can deter her. “Not awake enough for your shit, Scyl.”

She laughs, somewhere between affronted and amused. “ _Okay_ , Grumpy, it’s not like _I_ was the one touching your face in your sleep.”

You’re _extremely_ thankful for the blankets covering your face. “You had hair in your mouth.”

“What was that? Can’t hear you when you’re hiding after being caught _tenderly caressing my sleeping face.”_

You take it back. She’s not beautiful. She’s a rose thorn in your ass.

“What else did you do before I woke up, Raelle? Did we cuddle?” she goads, poking your side at every question. She’s relentless, even when faced with obstinate silence. She gasps theatrically, “Oh my god, were you going to kiss me?”

“What, _no_! I would never—”

Your indignant protest dies when you throw off the covers, because you stop breathing completely. Hovering above your face is Scylla’s, close enough that you can count the freckles on her nose. You hadn’t realized how little space existed between the two of you for her to be poking at your ribs. If she had moved her head just a bit closer –

Scylla draws back slightly. “ _Wow,_ Raelle, tell me how you really feel.” 

She smirks, despite the dejection in her tone. It’s enough to make you swallow the lump in your throat even when _you know_ you should know better. “I would never do that. Unless I’m sure you wanted me to.”

Deciding that was too much risk-taking before breakfast, you roll off the bed without waiting for her reaction, but this time, it’s Scylla’s turn to swallow nervously, blinking at your retreating back like a deer caught in the headlights.

“So, you didn’t get to do prom either?” Scylla asks, glancing over her shoulder as she stands on her tiptoes to reach for a can of mushrooms.

Scylla had taken to casually interrogating you about your older life whenever you accompanied her outside. To distract herself from the intrusion, probably, or to amuse herself, the latter being more likely. ( _Or maybe,_ a voice in your mind whispers, _she just wants to know more about you_ , but you ignore it in favor of staying focused.) It makes you remember things you’d rather forget, but you’d answer anything right now if it means what happened that morning would go unmentioned.

“Well, senior year was around the time my mom… you know,” you shrug, leaning on the handle of the grocery cart Scylla had delegated you to. “Besides, getting wasted at the school gym? Not as appealing when you could just make moonshine at home.”

“But the dancing! The flirting,” – she whirls around dramatically, and drops a can into the cart, as if you hadn’t just mentioned your mom’s untimely demise – “the dressing up just to get drunk on spiked punch!”

You catch on to the suggestive twinkle in her eye and chuckle, shaking your head at her antics. “We’re not making up for our lost childhoods by getting drunk, Scyl. It’s too dangerous.”

“Come _on_ ,” she whines, positioning herself in front of the cart to stop you from wheeling away, “live a little! It’s not fair that we never got to do it, and we don’t have to go anywhere crazy! Just a few drinks, a bit of dancing –“

“Scylla?”

Scylla turns at her name being called. At the end of the aisle is a tall man in a brown hoody, with short curly blond hair and pale blue eyes that are wide with surprise.

Scylla stiffens in recognition. “Porter.” A beat. “What are you doing here?”

The man – named Porter, apparently— approaches Scylla with a look of disbelief on his face. “ _Wow_ , it’s really you. I can’t believe you’re here! When I heard what happened to Moira and Nyx… I thought you were— I thought I’d never see you again!”

“Well, here I am,” Scylla affirms, a strained smile settling on her lips. “Sorry, I can’t really catch up. I’m sure you can understand.”

You watch the interaction with interest and some… concern. Clearly, there’s some history there. It’s your job to be concerned. You’re just worried about her safety.

Scylla moves to leave, but Porter intercepts.

“Wait, you’re just going to disappear on me again? Come on, can’t we at least have dinner?”

The handle creaks in your grasp.

Scylla gives him one more pained smile, before returning to your side. “It was nice to see you, Porter, but we really have to go.”

“We…?“ Porter questions, which morphs into a scoff when he finally notices you. “Oh _wow_. My girlfriend _vanishes_ without a trace, a few years later I hear she’s _dead_ , only for her to turn up with a new girl.” He shakes his head, contempt evident in his eyes. “Scylla Ramshorn. I don’t even know why I’m surprised.”

You bristle at his words, shouldering your way between him and Scylla. “What’s that supposed to mean, Parker?”

Scylla places a calming hand on your arm. “Let’s go, Rae. It’s not worth it.”

“Trust me, it’s _really_ not,” Porter snides, putting his hands up between the two of you with faux graciousness. “Word of advice? Don’t get too attached.” To Scylla, “Nice to know you’re not _dead_ , Scylla.”

He bumps your shoulder as he walks off – your eyes roll so far back in your head it almost hurts – but he circles back immediately, clearly not as obliging as he was pretending to be. “And for the record, it’s Porter.”

If not for the tight grip on your bicep, you might have punched his smug face in. “Well for the record, no one asked,” you sneer, “ _Peter_.”

Scylla cuts in before Porter can get the chance to respond; and _thank god_ , you think, because you don’t know if violence performed post-mortem could get you sent to Tartane. “ _Walk away, Porter._ ”

In an instant, his eyes have already glazed over. Goosebumps erupt on your skin at the demonstration of power. In the back of your mind, you hope he doesn’t walk into traffic; he might be a dick, but the worst he deserved was probably a black eye.

Scylla sighs in relief. “Told you I had an angry ex.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you grumble, still reeling from adrenaline. “Is that offer for drinks still on the table? Because I need one for that story. Or ten.”

The grin you receive is bright enough to give the sun a run for its money. “I thought you’d never ask, new girl.”

Her eyes shine in excitement and she does a little giddy dance that your heart seems committed to matching. You’re thrown off-balance, and you’re even more shaken by the unbidden thought that runs through your mind – _you might just do anything for that smile_.

Scylla makes a face at the weird laughter-gasp that comes from your mouth. Without the pressing desire to rearrange Porter’s face, you distract yourself from _new girl_ and _feelings_ by blurting out the first thing you think of. “You _really_ dated a guy named Porter?”

Scylla just swats at your arm.

With enough assertiveness to make it obvious that she’s doing it for herself too, Scylla had insisted on making up for your missed prom experience. She argued that dressing up and getting punch-drunk was essential to the affair, but you had to put your foot down that being vulnerable in public was too dangerous. In the end, you two arrived at a compromise: dressing up, dancing, and drinks – but stay at home. As you settle on a black sleeveless jumpsuit that probably reveals way too much cleavage, you find yourself having second thoughts.

Prom night. Four years after you died. Arranged by a girl who has been flirting with you nonstop. A girl that you might be ( _definitely_ ) attracted to. The same girl that you were supposed to be protecting.

There are _infinite_ reasons why you should just call the whole thing off. You’re so distracted and whatever this is will bite you in the ass later. You’re nowhere close to finding who was responsible for the explosion in Scylla’s office. You really should just – 

A rhythmic knocking cuts through your downward spiral, and you stuff a hastily prepared boutonniere – another prom essential, apparently – into its box. As you double-check your makeup in the mirror one last time, you try your best to not think about the meaning of making that trinket for Scylla, who is waiting outside your room to “pick you up“.

You swing the door open and your mouth immediately goes dry at the sight. Scylla is all glammed up – hair in an elegant updo, lips painted red, siren eyes made even darker. The metallic accent of the dark floor-length gown she’s wearing shimmers in the light, the sheer bodice clinging to her curves perfectly as a strong thigh peeks through a sinfully high slit.

You swallow thickly, willing your brain to regain function. When it finally does, two statements ring clearly in your mind.

 _This is a date,_ and _this is a really, really bad idea._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soft raelle collar come get THIS HUG  
> ALSO am i neglecting my plot in favor of writing fluffy raylla? maybe. do i care? yes, but NOT ENOUGH TO STOP.  
> is injecting a prom night into a story about a grim reaper and a killer weird? I DON'T CARE. I WILL DO IT. THEY'RE ORPHANS. THEIR CHILDHOODS WERE TAKEN FROM THEM. I'M GONNA GIVE THEM FLUFF (for now).
> 
> anyway i hope u enjoyed this. i promise there was a tinny bit of plot here. I JUST COULDN'T RESIST THE FLUFF.  
> also if anyone's curious, they were watching the good place.


	6. it's gravity (keeping you with me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prom night, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes they are wearing the clothes from /that/ photoshoot!!!! except without the bulky accessories. god i spend way too much time thinking abt that photoshoot, it's unreal.

For a long minute, neither of you say anything. Scylla looks you up and down shamelessly, eyes lingering slightly on your arms, breath hitching at the deep V of your jumpsuit. Your eyes follow the movement of her throat, transfixed by the long lines of her neck that her updo provides.

“Well, don’t you clean up nicely,” Scylla remarks, eyebrow quirking appreciatively. The bold shade on her lips makes her trademark grin even more disarming, and you can’t help the slight twitching of your fingers when she reaches for your hand to fit your wrist with a corsage, a gorgeous pink dahlia that matches perfectly with the flush on her cheeks.

“You, uh, look… really good too,” you manage, mind going haywire from the sensation of her fingers against your skin. You only remember what you’re supposed to do next when she glances at the box in your other hand, and you curse inwardly as you try to open it without making a complete fool of yourself.

When you finally succeed, Scylla’s jaw drops. The boutonniere – a bird skull entwined with lavender blooms, painted with a protection rune that you learned from your mother – is more of a charm, than anything else. Scylla had told you to “surprise her”, so you crafted it from one of the old dissection kits that you found when the two of you cleared out the guest room. In hindsight, she probably meant for you to surprise her with your choice of flowers, not with something vaguely paranormal.

Scylla takes the charm in her hands, holding it like a precious treasure as she admires it from various angles. The scrutiny makes your palms sweaty, and you’re almost at the beginning of a nervous ramble when she finally speaks.

“Well, consider me surprised,” she says, a hint of breathlessness in her voice. “Do you mind?”

You take the charm from her with clumsy hands. As you unclasp the back and approach her to pin it, you find yourself at a loss. The top half of her gown is see-through save for… the most essential parts. Your hands hover in front of you uselessly, half-stunned from the view, the other half unsure where and _how_ to pin the boutonniere.

Sensing your dilemma, Scylla leads your hand to the thick material which lies squarely atop of the swell of her bust. Almost immediately, the ramble from earlier spills out.

“I know it’s weird, but my mom taught me how to make all these charms, and this one is supposed to protect you, and like, the lavenders are supposed to help you find peace, and all that. It’s a skull because I’m from the afterlife and— and you work with the dead. Because you’re a medical examiner. Not because you’re a killer! I mean you are, but that’s fine. I mean – it’s not, but I— I don’t mind. I mean—”

“Thank you,” Scylla says quietly, rescuing you from further embarrassment. The look in her eyes had been growing fonder the longer you went on, which only made it harder to stop talking as you tried to avoid thinking about where your hands were or how close you were standing together. “This is amazing.”

This close to Scylla, you have to actively stop yourself from getting lost among flecks of green and hazel in the brightest canvas of blue. “Yeah.”

Conversation, and shy smiles. A perfectly timed laughter. The subtle hand on the curve of a girl’s back.

All of these were parts of a game you used to play with ease, but four years of being an invisible agent of death does exactly what you’d expect it to do for your flirting skills – absolutely nothing.

“So,” you start, willing your fingers to steady as you take a sip of your wine. Evidently, Scylla could be convinced to forsake prom-punch for quality. “A medical examiner at 23. How did that happen?”

She hums thoughtfully as she cuts into her dinner. “One of the few perks of being on the run is getting to pretend to be… whatever you want to be. My parents were both research nerds, so I learned enough from them to get my GED early. Did a bunch of biology courses under fake names, then when we got the chance to settle down,” – she abandons her food for a moment to shrug – “I did the medicine and pathology part.”

She says all of that casually, like it wasn’t a big deal that she’s an actual _genius_. Like it wasn’t a big deal that she lost her childhood to some mysterious military experiment, and that despite it all, her brilliance couldn’t be contained. Logically, you already knew these from her parents but hearing it from her still makes your chest tighten painfully. It makes you want to hug her, or maybe tear the world apart. Instead, you ask, “But why a medical examiner?”

Her brows furrow as she thinks about her answer. “I guess, because I’ve always been fascinated with death? Sometimes it feels like the only constant thing in my life. My parents were the first people I ever saw… die,”—her voice catches, and she pauses to take a gulp of wine, before soldiering on – “but even before then, we would always be surrounded by it. Sometimes it’s the people who were helping us hide. Sometimes it’s the ones who were after us. Either way, the moment the news reached us, we’d already be halfway across the country, living under new names.”

“And Porter?”

“Don’t you have to read me my rights first?” You roll your eyes at her snark, but you know you can’t hide the patient smile on your lips. “His family helped us. Then someone sold us out, and we had to go,” she relates sheepishly. “I warned him since the beginning.”

Despite your decidedly unpleasant opinion of Porter, you can’t help but sympathize – developing affection for someone in doomed circumstances is clearly something you have in common. A voice in your mind urges you to lay it all out, just recognize your emotions for what they really are and let go of the wheel. Another voice urges you to protect – not only her, but also yourself.

You finish the rest of your wine.

“Now it’s my turn to do the interrogating, don’t you think?” Scylla asks, waggling her eyebrows playfully. “What about being a ferrier moved the immovable Raelle Collar?”

You refill your glass, only to drain it quickly to loosen the sudden tightness in your throat. “It’s always mommy issues with me, isn’t it?”

You consider giving her the same bullshit answer you gave Abigail and Tally, but you think better of it at the thought of the vulnerability Scylla had trusted you with. Despite your reluctance to name your feelings, it’s undeniable that you’ve been finding it increasingly difficult to refuse her anything.

“My mom – she was always an avid believer in the afterlife. In rebirth. She lived her life by the concept.” You fiddle with the cutlery, fighting the telltale prickle behind your eyes. “Ferrying is a nightmare – _literally_ – but it’s fast, you know? It’s my best chance at seeing her even _just once_ before she chooses to be reborn.” Your voice has dropped close to a whisper, as memories you’ve long suppressed come flooding back. “She was just… such a good person. And when she died, I felt so lost. I _still_ feel lost. Like I’m still drifting in that ocean, and I’ll never find my way back to solid ground.”

The tremble in your voice is obvious, even to you. It almost feels like you’re 17 again, opening the front door to soldiers in formal wear and feeling your world crumble. Seeing your pop entertain guests with a smile while draining a gallon of moonshine in the same week. You watched an empty casket be lowered into the ground – there hadn’t been enough of her left to send home – and it wasn’t until two weeks later that you cried for the first time. You had come across the jacket that had her lucky charm on it, and that was how your pop found you – staring at your wall, holding the bird’s foot to your chest and mumbling over and over. _Why didn’t she take it? Why did she have to be a soldier? Why couldn’t she stay?_

“I know a way,” Scylla says softly, pulling you from your haunted reverie. She dabs at her mouth with a napkin and rises to her feet, before extending her hand towards you, a comforting smile on her lips. “It’s prom night. Nothing like dancing to keep you on solid ground.”

Despite the dull weight inside your ribs, the gentle look in her eyes has you mirroring her actions without a second thought.

You’re led by the hand to the living room where the couch and coffee table had been pushed to the side for an impromptu dance floor. Scylla plays a loud pop song, shimmying her shoulders and cycling through cheesy dance moves with a silly grin. Her repertoire included, but was not limited to, the wave, the dougie, the shopping cart, and that one move where she pinches her nose and waves her other arm up in the air. You try to match her, but your attempts are sabotaged by the peals of laughter that bubble out of you every time she switches to a new move. She even tries to bust out the running man, only for her heel to catch on the floorboards and end up with her stumbling into your arms.

Suddenly, your ears are filled with a quiet buzz as her hands land on your shoulders and yours hold her waist securely. The laughter from earlier dissolves into held breath. Standing chest to chest, you wonder if she can feel the thunderous drumbeat of your heart or the electric thrumming inside your veins.

The two of you don’t even pretend to sway to the music. Her eyes follow the quick sweep of your tongue across your lips, and your grip on her waist tightens as the two of you move closer like waves drawn to shore. Her ocean eyes have darkened into evening tide, and you never could have expected – both in life and _especially_ in the afterlife – to feel such an all-consuming desire to _drown_.

A breathless _please_ tumbles from Scylla, suspended in the inch of space between your lips and all the reasons why _you shouldn’t_ fade into white noise. Resisting the pull is like trying to resist gravity, and you’re certain, with your fingers tipping the jut of her chin, her wine-flavored lips sliding between yours, that _you have never felt more alive_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from dancing with our hands tied by tswift
> 
> coming up next....... 👀  
> hey i got a question. how do i know if it's mature or explicit? should I just... bump up the rating to E, jic? what's the difference. please help. also.... the next one is the longest chapter i've written for this. phew. smut makes me nervous. GOD.
> 
> (@ my friends who read this.... do not talk to me about me writing sex ever or istg i /will/ block you sksksksksks or simply melt on the spot.)


	7. take one step into the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smut, feelings, and a revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just in case u didn't see the summary:  
> THEY DO THE DEEDLY-DO IN THIS ONE

There had been butterflies inside your stomach the whole night – or the whole time you’ve known Scylla, if you’re being honest – but Scylla’s tongue licking inside your mouth makes it feel like those butterflies were _on fire_. Like they somehow touched the raging pyre inside your chest and made their way to your veins, setting every point of contact ablaze.

Scylla kisses like a desperate explorer, with curiosity and hunger and teeth; and you give as much as you get, destroying her perfect updo by tangling your hands in her curls. You map the cords of her neck with your lips, relishing in the way she arches for you, the little whimpers that escape when you nip at her skin, the breathy sigh when you soothe with your tongue.

After years of inattention, the hot pool of desire swirling inside your gut is unfamiliar, but not even death can temper the nearly primal urge to _feel_ every inch of Scylla.

You find the couch through the haze somehow, and your mind goes blissfully blank at the way Scylla lies flat on her back, spreading her legs to accommodate your hips. You run your hand over the length of the thigh that peeks through the slit of her gown, and the answering jerk of Scylla’s hips draws a low groan from your throat. A warm palm snakes its way inside your jumpsuit, and you realize with a jolt that you’re at the precipice of something you can’t come back from.

In an impressive exercise of self-control, you detach your mouth from her jaw and lift yourself so you’re hovering above Scylla. The loss of contact lets your lust-addled brain clear up enough to remember the list of reasons why this is _definitely_ a bad idea.

One, you’re supposed to protect her. There must be some rulebook out there explaining why you shouldn’t _fuck_ someone you’re supposed to be protecting, right? ( _Is there really, though?_ a suspiciously familiar voice whispers in the back of your mind.)

Two, she is a killer. As in an actual, honest-to-god murderer. That should be self-explanatory. ( _Is it, really? Wasn’t she doing the universe a favor?_ )

Three, you are _dead_. You’re a soul in a borrowed body, and the moment you complete your service, you’re making a short stop in Elysis, getting reborn, and saying goodbye to existence as you know it. ( _You still have another year. Plans can change._ )

And if, for some reason, none of those were enough to make you an unshakable fortress, here’s the kicker:

Four, this isn’t exactly a one-night stand for you. There are _feelings_ , and feelings make things complicated. ( _But you do complicated,_ comes the persistent rebuttal.)

In conclusion, you have a very solid case against getting involved with Scylla. All you need to do now is listen to logic, and not to that snarky voice with annoyingly convincing points.

Noticing the shift in your mood, Scylla sits up, retracting the hand on your chest and gripping the couch cushions in a desperate effort to stop herself from touching you. Ragged breaths punctuate her sentences as she voices her worry. “I’m sorry, was that… too much? We don’t… we don’t have to do anything else. Or anything at all. We can – we can just go back to eating. We can stop.”

The thing is, you don’t think anything short of a refusal from Scylla could make you stop at this point, not when Scylla is the picture of _undone_. You drink in her heaving chest as she stumbles through her spiel, the mess of lipstick on her mouth and neck, her nearly blackened pupils swimming with utmost concern. Her perfect façade had cracked somewhere between the movie night and silly dance moves and the involuntary rock of her hips, and every part of you _aches_ to know her completely.

You appreciate her chivalry, you really do, but you don’t _want_ to stop.

“ _You are so… beautiful_.”

Your whispered confession hangs in the thick air between the two of you. Scylla blinks at you owlishly, and you’re almost certain that that you have a similar expression on your face. The words had been rattling in your chest like a wild creature, and despite your intention to keep it locked in a tight cage, Scylla’s obvious concern just _unravels_ you in the best kind of way. And when she smiles that smile – the one that could outshine the sun –you come to a sinking realization that you were wrong about one thing.

You’re not on a precipice, not anymore; you haven’t been there for a long time. Because from the moment you laid eyes on Scylla, soot-covered and shaking on that blackened patio, you were already in _freefall_ and there was never any going back.

This time, it is Scylla who kisses you. It’s as tentative as the gentle hand she rests on your shoulder, barely a brush against your lips. She gives you every opportunity to end the kiss, but you don’t. Instead you draw her closer until she’s straddling you, in the same position she’d used to distract you before. It has the same brain-scrambling effect now, especially when she takes your bottom lip between her teeth and she presses her hips _down_.

Your voice is unrecognizable when you speak again. “Bedroom. Now.”

If you hadn’t been so busy kissing every freckle that’s unveiled as you peeled Scylla’s dress off her shoulders, you might have noticed the peculiar bumps on her back earlier. Instead, your mind is lost in a charged haze, focused solely on taking the corsage off your wrist so you could coax more pretty sounds from Scylla without wrecking her gift.

She’s even more breathtaking like this – splayed on her bed shamelessly, bare except for the thin black lace of her underwear. She had forgone a bra for the sake of her translucent bodice, and if you weren’t already on your knees on top of her, you would have fallen anyway in worship.

Her grin – that stupidly sexy grin – is a little different from usual. It’s every bit as inviting, but instead of the typical smug curve, her lips tremble slightly in anticipation. The flush in her cheeks reach all the way to her abdomen and you can’t help but map the perfect pink skin with your mouth.

Deft fingers thread through your hair just as your lips meet lace, and you smirk against the rough material as you kiss even lower.

“ _Fuck_ , Raelle _.”_

You’ve always loved the way Scylla said your name but hearing it roll off her tongue in a downright _filthy_ moan as her fingers dig into your scalp is something else entirely. It’s a lightning bolt straight to your core, one that’s quickly followed by another because Scylla is _wet_ ; you lick a hot stripe right on top of the damp spot on her underwear and her hips cant up so wildly that you have to hold her down so you can keep working.

“Mmm, that’s the goal,” you murmur against her, and whatever comeback she had gets drowned in a stream of curses when you move the fabric just a little bit to lick directly into wet heat.

“ _Fuck—_ ”

Scylla tries to stifle her moans with the back of her hand – the one that’s not tugging deliciously at your hair— and you can’t have that, so you detach your mouth from the heavenly taste of her arousal and drag yourself all the way up. Scylla’s complaint at the loss of contact becomes shallow pants when you move the offending limb and pin it above her head. When you pin her other hand too, Scylla looks about ready to _burst._

You lean down, just close enough so that your lips ghost over hers. “Stay there, yeah?”

Scylla’s hips buck helplessly, whimpering at the taste of her own arousal, and tries for a proper kiss; but you move out of reach with a _tsk_ , pressing her hands deeper into the pillows to prove your point. “I said, _stay._ ”

The hunger in Scylla’s eyes makes you want to abandon everything you have ever known. You’re a hair’s breadth away from just giving her what she wants, but the scratch of fabric against your chest reminds you that you’re still in a jumpsuit borrowed from her closet, and no amount of dry cleaning would salvage it if you gave in to the urge to feel Scylla grind against your thigh.

She probably doesn’t give a fuck – honestly, she’s more likely to rip the clothes off you at this point – but still, you wait for her to nod, smiling at the sharp intake of breath that unclasping the suit elicits from her.

You take your sweet time getting out of the jumpsuit. Scylla holds your gaze the entire time, and you become instantly aware of the slickness between your own legs. Her arms stay overhead obediently, but you don’t miss how her thighs press together when you get rid of your undergarments completely.

 _You want to stay in this moment forever_ , you think, as you reclaim your position on top of her. Beneath you, even with the blue of her eyes completely swallowed by black, Scylla looks at you with such openness and trust and _need_ that your chest _aches_. You want to make her feel good. You want to make up for every bad thing that has ever happened to her, every good thing that has been taken from her. You want to give her everything.

God, you would give her everything.

“Raelle, _p- please,”_ Scylla pleads brokenly, rocking her hips against the thigh that you’ve slotted between hers. She brushes against you in the process, and both of you gasp at the sensation. You’d be embarrassed at just how wet you are when Scylla hasn’t even _touched_ you, but the slick slide of her thigh against you makes it difficult to think of anything else. 

The thin hold you have on your composure grows increasingly threadbare as Scylla’s movements grow more desperate. You keep both of her wrists in one hand while you reach inside her underwear with the other, and Scylla _keens_ , her back lifting off the bed in a beautiful arch. There’s a sharp throb between your legs at the sight, and the easy slide of your fingers inside her makes you acutely aware of your own need.

“Let me touch you, Rae, _please_ , _please_ —"

You’ve already released her wrists before she’s even finished with her sentence. Within seconds, your eyes are rolling back in pleasure as Scylla reaches down to plunge two fingers inside you. She uses her hips to drive deeper, gravity working in your favor as you sink onto her fingers repeatedly; you don’t even realize that the breathy moans echoing around the room are coming from _you_.

Maintaining the rhythmic pace that you had set between her thighs becomes nearly impossible – you’re still being restricted by the ruined fabric of her underwear, and you’re close enough that there’s white spots creeping at the edge of your vision– so you pull away for a moment, soothing her whines with an open-mouthed kiss as you hook your fingers on lace and _tugs._

Scylla lifts her hips readily, helping you maneuver the material down her legs with her free hand. It doesn’t help the fog in your brain that she refuses to stop touching you after being denied for so long; but Scylla is wet enough to accommodate three fingers easily, and the long guttural moan she releases against your mouth when you do just that spurs you into focus.

“ _So good, Rae_ — _fuck_ , I’m so close, _fuck_ –”

You press your forehead on the crook of her neck as you work faster, trying to ground yourself as you feel your own climax approaching. Your teeth sink into the flesh of her shoulder and Scylla goes completely still, head thrown back against the pillows, moaning your name so loudly as she clenches around your fingers that the tension in your core _bursts._

Your world narrows to the tendrils of heat coursing from Scylla’s fingers reaching all the way to your toes, Scylla’s walls drawing your fingers further in, Scylla’s breath against your skin, Scylla’s voice in your ear _, Scylla, Scylla, Scylla,_ and –

You might have blacked out for a moment, you think, because the next thing you know, you’re collapsed on top of a breathless Scylla. Withdrawing your fingers elicits a low whine from her and you can’t help but chuckle at the way she flips your positions so you’re on your back and she’s nuzzling into your neck.

Post-coital Scylla is cuddler, apparently. Not that you’re complaining.

“You know you just had sex with the dead, right?”

You can feel Scylla smiling against your neck, and she gives a sleepy laugh that has you pulling her closer. “Mmm. I think I saw Elysis for a moment, actually.”

You press a soft kiss on the side of her head. “I’m sure Elysis doesn’t even compare,” you murmur, and you know that you’re _fucked_.

You like Scylla. You like living with her and protecting her. You like her snark, and the occasional moment of vulnerability. You like the way she makes you feel _alive,_ and “neutralizing the threat” is something you’d gladly put off if it means you could stay with her longer. It’s selfish, and very much against the natural order of the universe, and _you don’t care._

The only thing you care about right now is tracing the constellation of beauty marks on Scylla’s back. Everything else can wait.

You’re in the middle of drawing Orion’s Belt when you feel a peculiar set of bumps and Scylla suddenly stiffens. You stay still – she’s either about to put her walls up completely, or bring them even further down.

“I hope you find scars sexy,” she jokes half-heartedly, slightly muffled as her body relaxes and she buries her face deeper into your neck.

“I find every part of you sexy.”

Your words are lighthearted, but genuine, and your heart _swells_ when Scylla lifts her face from her hiding spot to place a grateful kiss on your cheek – the same spot where an old scar from your childhood runs from your chin all the way to your cheek.

It takes a few moments before Scylla clears her throat to speak. “It’s – it’s kind of, really… weird? I know I had a scar there since I was a kid, but this year, it just... changed completely. I don’t… I don’t really know how it happened.”

She turns around in your embrace to show you, and the pleasant warmth in your body is suddenly replaced by ice-cold dread. 

There, right in the middle of Scylla’s lower back, is a raised outline in a familiar shape. It’s the same figure on the back of soul coins and the cover of your ferrier notebook. The same figure inked on the back of your thigh — a circumscribed five-pointed star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song title from: freefall by hawkwind  
> listen.... smut makes me nervous. i... hope i did okay fdgaksgfkadhakjh anyway WOW THERE'S PLOT???? AFTER A NICE CUDDLY SCENE??? SAGE (that's me, that's my name) YOU MONSTER
> 
> Please let me know what you think I--- I NEED VALIDATION KSJDFHASKJFAHL I'M SORRY SMUT JUST MAKES ME SO NERVOUS I---


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